


Far Stucker

by PaxVobis



Series: Singles Collect [2]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Affectionate Insults, Bad English, Blood Kink, Bodily Fluids, Breasts, Character Death In Dream, Christmas Lights, Cowgirl Position, Creampie, Demigods, Don't Try This At Home, Dream Sex, Drooling, Drugged Sex, Drugs, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Face-Sitting, Flashbacks, Forced Orgasm, Freckles, Gore, Gorn, Group Sex, Groupies, Intoxication, Knifeplay, M/M, Magic Cock, Multiple Orgasms, Murder Kink, Orgy, Overdosing, Peer Pressure, Penis In Vagina Sex, Poor Charles, Queefing, Skwisgaar is ams dick, Sleepy Sex, Sorry Not Sorry, Svenska | Swedish, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, Unsafe Sex, Vaginal Fingering, bi character, terrible, trans pickles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 07:25:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10871958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaxVobis/pseuds/PaxVobis
Summary: The groupies in the orgy Skwisgaar and Pickles are attending seem to know something about the Swede that Pickles doesn't.  Well, curiosity killed the cat - if only he can keep his head above all those quaaludes.Explicit, R18+ only.  Some dubious consent.  Gore / Magnus warning for dream sequence.  Part 4 of Singles Collect.





	Far Stucker

At the turn of the new century, fame was a low hanging fruit, black with nectar and easy to pluck.  Pickles had been there before, on the cusp of world domination, as Snakes N’ Barrels third album had come to the surface – but he’d only been twenty then, and the blackness had been the tar in the heroin he was pumping into his body, and his self-hate, and his self-worship.  Now, Dethklok were about to release their third album and almost ten years had passed since that time.  Age had humbled Pickles, especially coming up to the big three-oh, and he knew better than to just grab what was offered to him.

And yet here he was, being pushed out of a sleek black car by the young Skwisgaar Skwigelf, his body too loaded on quaaludes and booze to think for himself.  No one else would come, too strung out from the concert – number twenty on their American tour, at an LA nightclub, but Pickles was always on board when it came to the O-word, even when he couldn’t form coherent sentences.  He heard Charles’ cautious voice dropping away into the dark of the limo as Skwisgaar guided him out – “Okay, guys.  Just be safe, all right?  No, ah, blood stuff, or - you know.”

And Skwisgaar said, “ _Ja,_ whatsever,” and took Pickles by the arm, dragging him towards the house in front of them.  Nice cars lined the street outside the suburban home, one of those low houses out in the LA sprawl hunkering shyly, blushing softly around the blackout curtains into the night.  The guitarist’s slender hand was firm on his arm, not exactly dragging him but Pickles swam too low in the drug to think his own way through a strange place.  He barely even remembered sitting there opposite their concerned manager, gulping back another handful of ludes washed down with gin and tonic, Skwisgaar – drunk – giggling at him from across the limo.  So, whatever.  Quaaludes were weak, and Pickles was an ex-junkie.  If he was going to go, he was going to go _hard._

Skwisgaar still smirked at him as he swayed in the dark of the house’s doorstep, the Swede knocking three times, slowly and deliberately.  There was a sound just beyond the door, then the outside light turned on above them, and only then did the door opened slowly, just a crack.  A young woman peered out, heavily made up with dark eyes and lips, her eyes a frosty blue with colored contacts and her long black hair teased up at the top and dreaded around her neck, her long nails rippling over the door.  “Password?” she said in a put-on gothique voice, and Skwisgaar said, “Fars-stucker,” in a voice that sounded to Pickles like it had been recorded on a tape cassette.

The girl smiled at them, taking one in then the other, and then pushed the door open wide, her lithe body leaned on the doorway as the music thudded around her.  “I’m always a sucker for stars,” she purred, and watched them hungrily as they entered the house, stepping into the blacklight.  Skwisgaar’s white clothes lit up bright neon as soon as the door drifted closed, the sound of the limo pulling back into the street swallowed by the industrial pulse of the music.  The girl looked back at them, her eyes floating in the dark like burning holes, and Pickles felt in love with her, his eyes wide only a moment before Skwisgaar dragged him away down the corridor.

“Shoes off.  Green room on the left... can’t miss it...” she called after them, her voice rippling in his ears, and Pickles’ breath rushed through his body in a surge as he wobbled and attempted unsuccessfully to toe off his sneakers and socks before Skwisgaar caught him, towed him around the corner, opening another door and whispering in his ear as he drew him inside:  “Jeez, Pickle.  You real fucked up.”

“Ooh... shit, I know, dude...” murmured Pickles, struggling to focus on his friend’s doubling face, purple in the dark.  Pickles, by contrast to Skwisgaar’s smooth features, looked like a stranger with his freckles mottled dark under the ultraviolet as they entered the next room – another blacklit, with the lights mounted above the blackout curtains oozing uranium green down the walls, and minimal decoration – a huge white Grecian angel on a plinth, lit up hysterical in the dark, some traditional fairy lights strung across the ceiling from the curtains to the ceiling fan and back again, and a large round Turkish rug covering the carpet, the blacklight making its ornate shapes seem alive beneath them.  Two huge couches bordered the rug, looming black, and an ottoman.  And people, fucking, everywhere.  The O-word was Orgy, Obviously.  Pickles _lived_ for this shit.

Skwisgaar immediately abandoned him for a group who had sat up and beckoned to him, calling his name upon their entry, stripping off his shirt and unbuttoning his jeans as he crossed to them and sinking to his knees with them on the rug.  Pickles was slower to react, the drug swimming through his body at half-speed, and he leaned on the wall for a moment as he took in the room.  The music thudded through the wall into his chest as he flattened against it, touching his numb face to wipe off his drool as he tried to work out who in the room he wanted to screw.  But honestly, he didn’t care.  So long as he could dissolve into the throng, ignored by those who might question his body, all was right in the world.  Fuck, his beard felt _great._   Was that seriously – dude.  So soft.  Crazy.

Pickles pulled off his shirt and abandoned it to the floor, wobbling into the crowd.  Hands grabbed at his leg – he couldn’t see who they belonged to.  He didn’t want to.  Women’s voices said his name, _Pickles!_ and again, _Hey, Pickles, come here!_ as he fumbled with his fly, staggering as hands snagged the denim and dragged his jeans down his legs.  Fucking crazy, he felt like he was burning up – tripped on the jeans leg as it was tugged down his calf and stuck on his shoe, and stumbled onto one of the couches and nearly on top of a woman who was laughing at him, reaching her arms out to catch him.

“ _Hellooo,_ ” whispered Pickles, his face mashed against her ear in a misaimed attempt to get closer and the jeans dragged over his shoes by someone else, and she just laughed and murmured _Hello..._ back to him, then grabbed him by his chin and kissed him.  The tingling, rawness of his lips and the blissful slime of her tongue in his mouth was suddenly his entire world, and Pickles kissed her hard, sticking his tongue to the back of her throat as his hands pawed blindly at her body and ignoring the other man eating her out beside them.

He knew kissing, and he knew the deep throb of music, a background of moans and panting from the guests.  Sharp nails drawn down his chest and over his underwear, dragged on his dreadlocks.  A faceful of breasts, his hand pushed through the short hair of the woman’s other lover between her thighs.  He could barely feel a thing, his breath slow inside him, feeling like he was wobbling on the edge of sleep, dipping under even as he chased his lips over her nipple.  And then, a fucking hole.  Not _her_ hole.  Just a hole, that swallowed him, and her laughing, _Pickles?  Pickles?  Stay with us, babe... oh, boy..._

And nothing.  Depth.  Coldness.  A great furred hole like a spider’s mouth, closing over him.  And then Pickles was on his hands and knees in the hole, and naked, and he lowered himself, one leg at a time, onto the floor until he was sitting.  The hole was on a fur quilt – no.  Tiles.  Rippling beneath him, the stone cold on his thighs.  A figure approached from the nothing, bare footsteps quiet on the tiles, and stood over him lanky and nude to the waist, olive-skinned, beautiful dark eyes and gorgeous curls down over his shoulders.  A kitchen knife in his long hand, drawn over the denim of his tight black jeans with a delicate whisper of steel.  Pickles looked up at it as it flashed in the dark, eyes wide, and wondered where the music went, nothing but a distant muffled pulse.

 _Hello, Magnus_ , he breathed, the words too loud.  Magnus sank down to his knees before him, his pale body lit by some external light that made him look washed out, almost green, and he moved the knife in a fluid, carving swing to rest against Pickles’ throat, freezing him.

 _Hello, Pickles.  Get on your back_.

Pickles gulped against the blade, but slowly retreated to lay on the tiles, flat on his back.  This was what Magnus wanted; he followed his neck down with the knife, leaning on his hand to stretch out beside Pickles, and then drawing the cold steel point down his body, leading a white line down Pickles’ pink skin where it touched him.  _You’ve got a great body,_ he purred appreciatively, and Pickles breathed jaggedly, somehow knowing what was next.

Magnus sat up beside him, holding the knife vertical on Pickles’ chest with the point digging into his skin, not enough to cut but enough to hurt as it pressed against his ribcage.  Magnus wiggled it idly, as if considering the right angle to sink it between Pickles’ ribs, and he wondered aloud, _I gotta say I missed ya, Pickles._

 _I ain’t missed you, Magnus,_ murmured Pickles, staring up at the guitarist’s shadowed face, and Magnus laughed softly.

 _Bullshit.  I bet if I opened you up, took a peek in that shrivelled lil’ heart of yours, I’d find the tiny, eensy bit that misses ol’ Maggie._ He smiled down at Pickles, his curls falling over his face.  _Sounds like fun, huh._

Pickles grinned back up at him, resting his hands on his bare stomach anxiously.  _I think if ya opened me up, you’d only find quaaludes, dude,_ he said, _just like, **so** many quaaludes.  Solid mandies._ And Magnus laughed at him again.

 _Let’s find out, huh?_   And then his face flashed to crazy, that bloodlust Pickles had seen before the dagger had gone into Nathan’s back, and Magnus raised the knife and drove it straight into his chest.

The blade punched through the skin and hit his chest plate like a blow, slitting the skin around it and creaking into the bone as Pickles gasped and curled in on himself, but Magnus was determined to open him up, pinning one of his hands to the floor as the other fluttered helplessly at the blade’s handle as Magnus pressed his weight down on it, his muscles straining as it scraped across the bone and then plunged into Pickles’ soft belly below with a flood of blood welling up around the guy’s fist, white-knuckled on the knife.  In Pickles’ mind, where he solely resided now, a kitchen knife was equipped to tear the skin; with Magnus’ thrusting fist, it sawed through skin and muscle down to his groin, the black blood pouring down the white skin of his belly.  Though he heaved with the pain, Pickles did not have the voice to scream.

Panting over him, Magnus desperately dug his other hand into Pickles’ body, and he could feel the long fingers crawl through his gut, wrapping around a handful of organs as he closed his fist around them and then tore them upwards, out of the tissue and into the cold air.  The guitarist’s visage was speckled with blood as he knelt over Pickles, trembling as he let the rubbery organs slide out of his opening hand and spill back onto Pickles’ opened body.  _Pickles!_ he hissed, and then his bloody hand came down on Pickles’ cheek, brushing it with the back of his fingers.  The knife was in his face again in a flash, dripping sticky blood like treacle as Magnus offered it to him.  _I need you to... I need you to... lick it._

But Pickles could not lick it.  The quaaludes were sucking him deeper.  _Magnus,_ he whispered, the breath barely escaping him as though the knife had punctured his lung, and Magnus grabbed his chin in a tight, near-choking grip as he turned Pickles’ face up to look him in the eye, even as his vision blurred and stuttered from the blood loss.  Magnus in the blacklight, suddenly, his face dark and obscured, the strip of fairy lights above and Pickles slurring, “Yes,” as he felt his legs parted, his lukewarm saliva drooling messy down his beard, then Magnus’ face blazing blood splattered again, cradling his face in his warm hand.  Back in the hole.

 _Pickles_ , breathed Magnus again in the back of his throat, hoarse with lust, as he drove the knife back into Pickles’ gut, right above his pelvis, _Pickles, you still with me, man?  I need you to... come back to me.  Come on, buddy.  Oh boy._

Magnus’ bloody thumb rubbed over his lips, numbing with death to an electric tingle where he roughly smeared and groped at Pickles’ mouth, and his breath heaved through his choking throat at the muted taste of his own blood, rubbed over his lips and flooded up the back of his tongue.  A painful ringing sound was filling his head now, smothering his other senses, and Pickles recognised it as the tolling bell of death, an agonising, suffocating tingling, the life leaving his body and siphoned off his brain.  The dying neurons, like battery cells, spilling their electricity and disconnecting him from the rest of his body with a uranium green.  His eyes closed on Magnus’ gruesome visage like blackout curtains.  Like huffing too much gas under the rail bridge in Tomahawk, feeling like he was gonna die, the thundering of the train above.

He could hear his ex-wife’s voice through the ringing, her soft tones, Nevada heavy, _Pickles, are you listening to me?_ Magnus’ vicious grip, pressing down on his numbing jaw as he dug his fingers into his cheek.  A knife in his fucking cunt.  His wife again: _Pickles.  Don’t you walk away from me.  Jesus Christ!_

The ringing was all-consuming now, Pickles cracking his eyes open to look at Magnus but only seeing purple as the voices increased in fuzzy, distant babble in his head.  The echo of a young man’s voice: _How about that IV, man?  Jesus, I said stat.  Yeah, stat!  We’re losing the son of a bitch!_ His wife, Evie, Evelyn, he moved his mouth around the thumb to form her name, _Evie…_ \- _You don’t love me, all you love is fucking smack.  Are you listening to me?  Pickles.  PICKLES._ And other female voices, dozens of them, all repeating his name with love, with lust, with disgust, _Pickles?  Pickles… hey, Pickles…?  Is it really..._

Beneath them all he felt his teenage sweetheart’s hand drawn across the thin sweat of his forehead, holding him close in his hour of need - could smell her powdered skin, her voice like a blue sky memory: _Oh, baby… little baby… go to sleep, little baby…_ and the tears were thick down his pallid, shaking cheeks, clenched in Magnus’ fingers.

And then, feeling nothing but the knife twist deep in his gut, he came.

The orgasm washed through him and swept away everything else like a wave breaking, bringing him slowly to the surface as he opened his eyes to blacklight, green and purple - the smell of stale sweat - the ceiling of the orgy room with its twinkling lights.  He was flat on his back and circled by beautiful, angelic, oh _so_ beautiful groupie faces and bare breasts, looking down at him with concern with their slender hands on his pulse, on his brow, clasping his hands.  Their relieved voices were music around him, _Pickles!  Come back, babe.  Is he back?  Oh, thank god!  We thought we were gonna lose you!_ and Pickles smiled dreamily.  His mouth tasted of pussy, his face still wet with slime and tears.  There was a hand in his cunt, too, deep in, with the thumb rolled hard and lazy in circles around the base of his dick, and that, he realised, had been what had woken him.  The quaaludes must have pulled him under mid-face-riding, and this goddamn saint had rubbed him back to life.  Pickles breathed out a shaking sigh, clutching the hands that held him, and wheezed thankfully, “ _Ladies_ …”

“Eh, Pickle.  So yous finally… comings back to joining wid us,” came a smug voice, and Pickles, stilling with horror, raised his head – felt like it was full of lead – to see that one of the beautiful blonde crowns he’d taken, in the fog of his waking, to be another groupie, was instead motherfucking Skwisgaar.  Sitting over him, totally nude, his hand lodged inside him, the other casually hooking up Pickles’ leg over his lap to give him better access.  He could feel Skwisgaar’s thigh against his ass where he was sitting over Pickles, and the drummer dropped his head back against the couch he was lying on - yes, he was on the couch still, he could tell now, the ladies sitting on the back and the arm and peering over the seat around them - with a groan.  Everything was quite sticky.

“Oh, what the _fuck_ , Skwis... gaar…”

“Hmm?”  The Swede had not, at any point, ceased rubbing him, his gentle fingers moving inside Pickles like it was second nature to him.  Pickles felt full, bloated, the way he always felt post-orgasm if they left it in - but Skwisgaar was fucking _masterful_.  He was loathe to admit it, but, _fuck_.  It felt great.   _Insane_.  But jesus, it was so, so wrong.

“I’m in your... in your band, Skwisgaar.  What the hell,” he groaned sluggishly, his tongue heavy in his mouth and spilling drool, and he released one of the groupies so he could put his hand to his brow.  Skwisgaar gave a little shrug, pouting at him.

“Ams orgy, I figures, you ams not… minding, heh.”  He smiled then, gloating like a cat in a dairy, and ground his hand up into Pickles with an unpleasant squelch.  “You certainlies seems like you ams not mind...”

Pickles felt his stomach, or maybe his cervix, churn with the thrust.  “Eugh, god.  Ya gonna make me qu... fuckin queef,” he managed nauseously, and then lolled his head to look past the girls around the room.  It was empty – the music pounded still, everything where it was before, just emptied apart from all the women who surrounded them.  Pickles felt a chill in his heart.  How long had he been asleep?

“Where is... everyone?” he groaned, scanning the women’s faces, and trying to ignore the fact that Skwisgaar was still knuckles deep in him.  The Swede glanced about, as if asking the question himself, his sleek blonde hair rippled across his sharp, pale shoulder like glossy silk in the blacklight, and Pickles quietly wondered how high he still was.  If his brain had become a quaalude.  Oy.

“Mm, dey leaves,” said Skwisgaar in a bored tone, then looked back at Pickles and admitted, his face settling sinister, cocky, “I ask… for dems to leave.”

“Jesus...   _why?”_  Pickles was dreading the reply, if maybe he’d been preyed upon, but Skwisgaar didn’t seem to care.

“Cus, all dese ladies… dey ams onlies here, for me.”  He looked up at the girls, smirking to their happy tittering confirming his hypothesis.  Pickles groaned beneath him and pulled his knee back against his body and out of Skwisgaar’s grip, his sneaker bobbing black and blazing white in the darkness.

“And ya didn’t think to wake me…?  Get your _freakin_... hand outta me, Skwisgaar, c’mon.”  Reluctantly, Skwisgaar withdrew his hand, giving it a flick with his wrist and smattering the warm liquid against Pickles’ bare belly and then giving his raised thigh a playful, dismissive slap, but retreating all the same.  The drummer groaned to see the bright glow to the drops against his dark skin in the blacklight as he lowered his leg and scooted his ass back away from Skwisgaar, and dropped his head back, raking his face with his hands.  “Oh, my god.  That’s cum.  Oh, god.  Who _fucked me?_ ”

“Don’ts knows.  Ams… was busy,” said Skwisgaar placidly, and the girls giggled around them.  Pickles sat up at last, his head feeling thick and dumb and suffering a vague amnesia for the last few hours.  He could remember nothing except lemmon lows - quaaludes, and sex.

He fixed Skwisgaar with a pointed squint, narrowing the two Skwisgaars to one.  “Did _you_ fuck me?”  But the Swede shook his head.

“Nots - - ”

“Thank g - - ”

“ - - yet.”

“ - - aw...d… _what_ did you just say, dude.”

Skwisgaar smiled, not a hint of apology on his smug fucking face at all.  “Nots yet, I have not.”

Pickles’ squint intensified, a shiver prickling over his skin in the stale, warm air.  “Y’see, y’say that with a lotta, like, intent,” he observed, and felt a dozen hungry eyes on him from the girls.  Anxiously, he turned to look around at them, their gazes crawling over his skin.  “Uh, ladies.”

Skwisgaar was wiping the slime and glowing semen off his hand on the fabric of the couch, looking cool and ambivalent as the Swedish always seemed to.  Where he was sitting, propped up on his arms, Pickles could feel the lukewarm mess drooling out of his numb cunt, and privately rolled his eyes at his idiot self.  Getting too fucked to use protection again – too fucked up to even take his shoes and socks off - this was the issue with orgies, _damn it_ …

“We - us - dese lovelies ladies, and me… you seem happies to be sleep, Pickle.  So we leaves you to be.  I t’ink Marina fuck you face.  Maybe.  Marina?”  Skwisgaar looked up at the woman called Marina, whose tanned skin was dark in the weird light, her bottle blonde hair glowing, about Pickles’ age, perhaps a bit older, with turquoise eyeshadow flashing brilliant over her eyes.  She nodded.  Okay, well… that was fun, at least.  Wish he remembered it.

“And she notice… dat you veries far sleep… maybies, too far.  Gettings worries.  So we checks you… ams… very surprise… to find you ams, eugh, lady, Pickle.”

“I ain’t,” he said, fixing Skwisgaar with a vicious squint.  “Do I fuckin’... _look_ like a lady to you, dude?” he challenged, curling his lip at Skwisgaar, and the Swede pouted and glanced at the girls surrounding them, then back at Pickles.

“ _Ja_ , okays, you ams, like… chicks wit’ dick but like, de in-reverse.  What’s you’ms-ma-call-it.  Reallies, um... Rockies Horror,” elaborated the Swede.

One of the younger groupies leaned over him then, wide-eyed, chipping in, “I wasn’t surprised.”

“Yeah, it’s all over, fuckin’... Metalsludge, huh,” growled Pickles up at her, and the girl giggled back, grabbing his hand and squeezing it playfully.

“With pics!  But I didn’t believe, like, your face isn’t in them so… it’s different in the flesh, like.”

Pickles rolled his eyes.  “Fuckin’ hell, _how,_ ” he groaned, and wiped the drool off his mouth with the back of his hand, and the girl - leaning forward to place a light kiss on his cheekbone - took the hand she held and placed it on her ridiculously augmented breast.  Pickles instantly squeezed it, a knee-jerk reaction, oggling her breasts close to his face and feeling his dick give a wanting twinge.  “Eugh, whatever,” he mumbled, and ran his numb thumb over her pierced nipple as his mouth tugged into a lopsided smirk, “Uh.  Skwis, I was gonna say, we should call Charlie and get outta here but… I, uh… I don’t think I’ve met, some of these… ladies.  Hello.”

Pickles turned onto his side to lay both hands on the girl as she giggled at him, pulling her closer by the waist from where she stood at the edge of the couch so that her breasts were pulled straight into his face.  He had just got his tongue over one of them when Skwisgaar grabbed him by the leg, pulling it back towards him.

“Pickle!  Hey, payings attensam to me nows!”  Pickles did not, preoccupied with kissing the girl’s neck as he got up on his knees to her height.  This was his orgy too, after all, especially now it was _just_ Dethklok, you know.  “I catches you for liesing and all youse t’inks abouts ams dis, pussy?  Holy moly!  You’s a _slut!_ ”

“I like cunt!” snapped Pickles back over his shoulder, eyes wide, and then turned his attention back to the girl, sneering into her ear as his hand snaked between her legs, “So sue me.  Douchebag.”

He was leaning into her embrace, his fingers sinking into her waxed, warm pussy slick with what he could guess was Skwisgaar’s sloppy seconds but could not seem to give a fuck, when the Swede pounced.  A strong hand hooked around his hip, yanked up his leg at the knee, and Pickles barely had a chance to realise he’d been flipped before he had been tossed onto his back like a pillbug on the couch, giving a weak woof as the breath was knocked from him, his head swimming under his high.

Skwisgaar grabbed his ankles, looming over him against the throbbing green walls with his hands blue against the white rings at the cuffs of Pickles’ socks.  “ _So do I,_ ” he breathed over Pickles, and the drummer held his head as Skwisgaar’s form doubled and swam before him.

“ _Douche_ bag…” he groaned, feeling ill, trying to focus his squint on Skwisgaar, “You think you’re god of pussy or somethin’?” and Skwisgaar just grinned, his teeth a bright white strip against his dark lips in the blacklight glow.

“ _Ja_.”

“ _Jeeze._ ”  Pickles was going to say something about how _much_ pussy there was here, in fact, how everyone who didn’t have one had cleared out except for Skwisgaar, but his head swam again before he could reach the conclusion of his thought or have it leave his mouth.  Seeing his eyelid slack, a girl behind him put her hands around his face, her breasts held to his head and soft against his bald scalp, and Pickles leaned back into her embrace, turning his cheek gently to the breast.  “Oh...”

Skwisgaar was laughing quietly at him, his warm, slender hand drawn softly across the inside of Pickles’ thigh as the drummer laid sprawled, idiot with drugs and sex.  “You’ms reallies, reallies fucked up, Pickle,” he observed in a mocking cluck, and Pickles groaned again, moving his hand from his head to the breasts that cradled him.  The girl kissed him on the forehead.

 _He’s so cute…_ she gushed to Skwisgaar, and then down at Pickles, _You’re so cute_ , and the girls all cooed around them, moving over him into his circle of vision with all their twins and duplicates, and Pickles’ head swamped with a blushing lust for them, feeling so warm and admired, his short dick swollen with anticipation as sleek, manicured hands ran over his skin, on his neck, holding his hand, on the soft skin between his thighs.  

He was vaguely aware that they had surrounded Skwisgaar too, touching him, one of the Swede’s hands still clasping Pickles’ ankle while the other cradled a girl’s cheek.  Pickles could see them staring into each other’s eyes, and the girl with her hand stroked up Skwisgaar’s swollen dick - that was good, this was good.  Now he was conscious again and there was no competition, maybe he could have some sex he actually remembered.  A private Dethklok twenty-some; or each of them could have a ten-some, that sounded less... you know... gay.

But “Watch dis,” murmured Skwisgaar to the girl lasciviously, and stuck his hand back into Pickles.  

Pickles immediately grabbed at whatever was in his hands at the time in shock - which was one girl’s breast and another’s buttock, to joint squeaks of surprise - his breath sucked in and about to scold the guitarist when Skwisgaar’s fingers worked straight into a sweet spot.  Instead the breath escaped him in a shudder, his hips arching involuntarily, the stab of pleasure swimming through his head like a bolt.  Around him, more cooing confirmed the show, _aw_ , _cute_ and _silly thing_ and _oh, Skwisgaar_ , soft laughter.

“Why are you like this,” hissed Pickles, trying to ignore the way his eyes wanted to roll back in his head and his leg twitched in Skwisgaar’s hand where he held it bent up by the ankle, but Skwisgaar - smirking down at him, _knowing_ \- had a _gift_.  God of pussy.  It was undeniable.  Pickles guessed he’d had time while he was out of it to work out the precise spot to push him over, and the thought of Skwisgaar working his way through all these women and then having his attention drawn to _just another pussy_ overdosing on the couch made him feel a little ill.  Of him tallying it up, a completionist, wondering if it worked the same being part of his bandmate as it did part of a groupie, wondering where the line was between the two; of them crowding around like the Swede was a surgeon in a theatre and _probing_ , you know, _I wonders…_

But shit, it felt _insane._

“Skwisgaar,” he said, and was horrified by the way it came out as a freaking _mewl_ , the Swede regarding him lazily with hooded eyes as he worked his fingers into the top curve of Pickles’ cunt, curled up behind his pubic bone expertly.  Pickles had meant to say something, something like, _you gotta teach me how to do that_ , but instead he just squeaked and came.

“Patheticks,” said Skwisgaar smugly, pulling his hand out again with a grin, and Pickles shuddered a moment before he deflated, this time giving the queef he’d dreaded to laughter around them.  Couldn’t seem to care, though, dragging his body up to drape over the arm of the couch, panting; damn, he needed a cigarette _badly_.

“Twice, dude.  Ya done that twice, now,” he pointed out, holding up two fingers to Skwisgaar, “You even think about how ya gonna look me in the face tomorrow?  We gotta show, ya know...”  But Skwisgaar just shrugged.

“What’s happenings in orgy, stay in orgy,” he said, non-plussed, “Dat ams de orgy rules.”

“Motherfucker.  Fine.”  Pickles cast his eyes down, his face cradled by another girl behind him with her hair firm with hairsprayed curls tickling his shoulder.  Slowly, he raised them again, eyeing Skwisgaar.  “Counts, though.  For this.”

“ _Ja,_  it counts...”

“I mean, this.”  Pickles pointed to his crotch, watching Skwisgaar’s reaction carefully.  “What happens in the orgy stays in the freakin’ orgy.  So you forget about this after, okay?”

Skwisgaar eyed him, huffed, and then let himself fall back into the girls on the other side of the couch to a chorus of giggles.  “Whatevers.  Fine,” he said, rolling his eyes, and Pickles felt a faint relief.  No tension in rehearsal.  No band gossip.

“That goes for all of you, too, okay,” he said to the girls, and they tittered the affirmative.  _Yeah yeah.  Yes, Pickles..._

“Not dat it matters, anyways,” said Skwisgaar, nestling against a girl, and Pickles thought perhaps the Swedish were as progressive as he’d heard until the guitarist added, “You’ms been fucking Nat’an, so, he’s knowing, he does not care.  I don’ts care either.”

“I am _not_ fucking Nathan.”

Skwisgaar fixed him with a pointed gaze, challenging him.  “Bull, shits,” he said rudely, and Pickles riled at him.

“I ain’t!  C’mon, Skwis.  I ain’t fucked a dude in - - ”  There was a weird silence between them, a dozen eyes pulled down to his messy, glowing crotch, and Pickles collapsed back.  “Okay.  Like, twenty minutes.  I dunno.  But I ain’t fucked Nathan, okay.  Believe me.  I love myself more than fuckin’... fifteen inches.”

There was stale silence between them, embraced by the women and with the music thudding, and then a girl said something into Skwisgaar’s ear that made him raise his head to look at her.  “What?  Shows him?  Shows what?” Pickles heard, and the girl explained, and Skwisgaar just laughed at her.

“He don’t wants dat,” he said around his grin, and Pickles straightened, peering at them.

“I don’t want what?”

Skwisgaar looked down his body at him, cocking an eyebrow.  “Does you?” he said, and then patted his thighs on either side of his erection, straight in the dark.  Pickles stared at him.

“ _What?_ ”

“If you wants, comes on.  Yous ams got dis, onlies pussy here I ain’t fuck’d.”  Skwisgaar sat up and patted his thighs again, and Pickles started as a girl shoved him by the shoulders, looking back at her in alarm.

_Let him show you!_

“Show me _what?_ ”  Pickles looked at Skwisgaar’s dick, raising an eyebrow and sneering.  Sure, it was a nice dick, but – say – smaller than Magnus’.  Smaller than Tony’s.  _Definitely_ smaller than Nathan’s.  In fact, it was totally unspectacular, Skwisgaar’s dick, a nice shape, an average size, a gentle curve.  Looked like a fucking dildo, one of the high-end ones, smooth and all – like the ideal concept of a dick all other dicks were modelled on.  Pickles snorted back as Skwisgaar looked at him expectantly.  “I already came twice, and ya got a dinky lil’ weener.  What could you _possibly_ show me?”

 _Go on!_   Another gentle push.  Pickles arched his eyebrows at the tittering girls around him.  “Seriously?”

_Seriously!  You gotta._

_You gotta, you won’t_ believe _, baby._

_You have to, Pickles!_

Pickles looked at Skwisgaar, who was waiting expectantly, then at the guy’s abnormally perfect dick, and asked himself: was he really going to do this?  Just because a pack of girls told him to?  This was insane.  He totally was.

“You got a rubber?” he asked carefully, scooting up the couch to Skwisgaar’s middle as the guy’s smirk grew wider, and Skwisgaar pouted at him.

“Ams... not workings, wit’ condom,” he said, and Pickles rolled his eyes.

“Right.  That’s what they all say...”

“Ams true!”  The girls agreed as one, _it’s true!  It really is, I’ve tried it.  It’s true,_ and Pickles looked around at them bemused.

“Y’all clean, though?” he asked, guessing that was as good as he was going to get, to another chorus of agreement, schoolgirl-like: _Yes, Pickles._

Fucking weird.  “Well... all right.  Here goes nothin’,” he said, and he straddled Skwisgaar, uncomfortable with the way the guy zoned in and out of himself in Pickles’ gaze with the ludes, but pointed a cautionary finger at him before he tried taking it, “Remember.  What happens here, it don’t get out, agreed?”

“ _Ja._   Ones off onlies, Pickle.”  Skwisgaar ran his hands up Pickles' thighs, looking up at him curiously.  “Ams news for me, too.  I amsn’t nevers had dis... boy pussy.”

“God, don’t ever say that to me again.”

And, taking care not to look at Skwisgaar as he did it – glancing from one expectant groupie to another, all the women smiling at him encouragingly, _fucked up_ \- Pickles lowered his hips and guided Skwisgaar’s perfect, stupidly perfect, dick into himself.

It felt, as it often did in orgies, mechanical at first, mounting Skwisgaar with a girl holding his hand, other fine hands on his chest and back, the women coming in around him, sitting on the couch with him with their arms around him and kissing his neck.  Pickles was constantly distracted by them, pulled away from Skwisgaar save for the divine-feeling intrusion in his cunt, like a golden rod that pushed up against that good spot, perfectly against that good spot, and glowed there against it like a slow itch far inside him.  

He sat on it a moment, leaning forward with his hand on Skwisgaar’s chest and feeling it sunk in him, and then closed his eyes slowly, tilting his head forward.  “Oh, shit,” he breathed, to a chorus of _oh yes!  He gets it!  Yes!_   And still, opening his eyes to Skwisgaar’s white smile swimming before him, Pickles was not exactly sure what he was supposed to get.  Only that his cock felt so _right_ where it was.

“Take yous time, Pickle,” said Skwisgaar, his hands pressing Pickles’ hips to hurry him, urge him forward, and Pickles gave them an experimental roll, shuddering as he felt Skwisgaar’s dick move inside him.  How was that – how did that feel so good?  He’d barely moved.  Maybe it was coming up to orgasm three that did it, or the mandies, but it seemed to curve right in to that same sweet spot Skwisgaar had fingered before, a line of drool leading from the corner of Pickles’ mouth again.

He sat back within the embrace of the women, touching their faces as he sluggishly rolled his hips, and thought this - if it was going to happen - was how he preferred it.  No reason to give Skwisgaar, this smug dickhead smirking up at him, any of his affection, no intimacy to it besides the obvious.  Even the prior orgasms seemed so contrived, so much like he was _acted upon_ \- like an accident.  Like Skwisgaar making some snide comment across the couch in their studio, _hej, Pickle.  How’s abouts you, eugh, cuttings back on dis, Paris doodle dere, eh?  Or we gonna ends up eatinks frogs… legs of frogs.  Ha._

_Paris -- god damn it.  Paradiddle.  It’s paradiddle, douchebag.  And there weren’t even any in that - -_

_Whatevers.  Heh, youse defence de French.  You fuck cowards frog, Pickle._

_Yeah, va te faire foutre yourself, Skwisgaar, fuck…!_

Pickles swallowed back a mouthful of drool as his pace quickened, his brow furrowing in confusion at the twisted feeling in his cunt.  His G-spot, right?  What did that stand for - apart from like, _oh, gee...!_  His God-spot.  He was vaguely familiar with it, with toys and girls, but it always seemed to move halfway through the fun and become impossible to find again.  And here, twice now, Skwisgaar had just reached straight in and pulled it out of him.

For that matter, he’d never, you know, _had_ someone stick their cock right in there, and he felt like a cork being drilled into the top of a champagne bottle.  He shuddered and bucked his hips against Skwisgaar, self-conscious at his enjoyment of a man’s body before his bandmate but barely kept afloat over the quaaludes and the female hands that held his body, the breasts crushed against his freckled back and the lips drawn over his neck, the shell of his ear.  They _were_ right, this _was_ something else, like an impossible knife pushed through the front of his cunt with a painfully sweet cut as Skwisgaar grabbed his ass and encouraged him further.  And he bit his knuckle rather than say, _Jesus, Skwisgaar, you’re good at that._  Because something didn’t quite connect.  

Even beyond the quaaludes, he knew Skwisgaar was doing nothing except lying there and pawing his ass.  The girls did little too, just kissed him and moaned into his ear, in sympathy with his shuddered breaths.  Not like Tony, with the benefit of girth and deep affection.  Not even like, ugh, _Magnus_ , who for all his entitlement had at least had some tricks up his sleeve, and had lucked out on what Pickles liked, outside of, you know, boobs.  Skwisgaar was just like... a very elaborate flesh dildo.  A _good_ dildo, but - -

“Looks at dis, _filthy_ smirk,” said Skwisgaar, and Pickles flinched as the guy grabbed his cheek between thumb and forefinger and dragged on it like an overzealous aunt, pulling his lopsided smirk horizontal on his crooked teeth.  “You looks at me like you looks at, _sweet buns_ … Mercedes Benz.  Or Nat’ans.   _Ha._ ”

“Shut the fuck up, Skwisgaar,” groaned Pickles, feeling a woman’s hand snake over his pelvis to his cocked dick, “Ya can’t… forums, they... gossip… y’know, _fuck_.”

Skwisgaar just smiled at him, pushing the woman’s hand away to take over with a thumb pressed against the underside of Pickles’ dick and ground up against his pelvic bone to a flustered, sobby moan.  And there was laughter, irritating laughter, but Pickles couldn’t even think for the quaaludes and the scalding plateau of his third orgasm, his hands pressed anxiously against his own belly as if he could rub that spot from both sides and only feeling his cunt seize with the edge of it.  

“Eugh, I can feels dat!  Look ats you, fuckin’ _slute!_ ”

The one little thrust Skwisgaar bothered to give, bouncing Pickles’ small body as he brought him down with his hands, tipped him over the edge with an inane mewl, bowing his head as he dropped forward into the hands of the groupies and his cunt locked hard onto Skwisgaar’s dick.  The Swede, laughing at him deep in his chest, brought his arms around Pickles as the girls let him crash, his sweating forehead almost touching Skwisgaar’s collarbone, his hands still desperately groping the soft pudge of his belly over the intrusion that felt like it was going to burn a hole through him where it ground into the tender flesh.

Pickles battled for breath as Skwisgaar just laughed at him, his head stewing thickly with the body drugs and quaaludes, and then the Swede was humming amused and twirling his dreads around his fingers idly.  “I never sees humans bean go so quicks changings color… all yours spottings ams vanish in de purple!  Ha!” he jeered, and Pickles let a mawful of saliva drool onto his chest.  “Oh, eugh!  Dat, Pickle - revoltsking.”

Skwisgaar glanced around at the girls, who had engulfed them as soon as Pickles had fallen, covering the drummer’s body with kisses and caresses until he shuddered where he hunched over the guitarist.  Thinking - his cock still burning in Pickles’ messy cunt.  “Hmmf.  Ladies,” said Skwisgaar as he put his hands on Pickles’ shoulders and started to push him upright again, “Help me - gets him up.  I want him - against dat.  De sofa… ehm, arm dere.  Okay?  Once _, två_ ces _, tre…_ _häv_ ve _!_ ”

“Huh?” moaned Pickles uselessly as he was pulled and pushed back off Skwisgaar, doped out on the afterglow.  He wasn’t sure exactly what was happening, except that in dragging him off of Skwisgaar to the end of the couch, the Swede’s erection was drawn out of him and his cunt twinged for its absence.  Fuck, he must have been _really_ horny before all this went down, too horny to even realise how horny he was.  Three orgasms in and the damn thing still twanged for more?  He usually only got through one before he was flat out on his back.

Skwisgaar had gotten up on his knees, gesturing the women to bring Pickles back further.  “Up, up!” he directed, and Pickles was lifted onto the arm of the couch.  Perhaps any one of the women would have struggled to lift him, but together they were a force of nature, stroking his face and hooking his knees up as he clung to any one of them he could grab, collapsing back over the edge of the couch, his hair falling away from his neck as they held him in their arms, laughing, the drummer fascinated by the ticks of his Vans floating in the dark above him.

Then there was warmth between his spread thighs again, and Skwisgaar had grabbed his chin, tilting his head up to look at him.  In a dream, Pickles felt Magnus’ nails dig into his cheeks, though the Swede in reality was gentle, if firm.  “Now, I gets mine.  You gots a real sluts pussy, Pickle, over-use - makings it hard for me… Nat’ans mustings all stretches you outs,” he sneered, and Pickles would have protested had Skwisgaar not sunk his cock back into him at that moment, instead just rolling his eyes back as his body strained against the Swede.

“Oh, _fuck me,_ ” he gasped, and Skwisgaar snorted at him, his breath cool on Pickles neck as he released his face.

“ _Ja_ , ams de idea.  Jeez.  You t’ink ya knowings dis guy…” he muttered, raising his body from Pickles as he hazarded his first thrust and relinquishing Pickles’ flushed face to the women cooing over him, “Den ones day.  Turn out he ams just dumb-ass sloppsy-pussies _slut_.”

“You’re a slut too, Skwisgaar,” managed Pickles, barely, the fairy lights blurring above him as he cracked an eye open enough to see them.  “You fucked every one of these… _ladies_ …”  More boobs in his face.  God!  What a good night… and his legs were unconsciously wrapping around Skwisgaar’s hips, nearly crossing at the ankles, as his face contorted at the crazy feeling of Skwisgaar’s rut.  Jesus.  Felt like his cunt was a galaxy, like with every stroke Skwisgaar set the stars alight inside him.  There was no way such a gentle, basic thing should make him feel like this.

“Ams differents.  I ams… exceptions,” murmured Skwisgaar, and then smirked at the way Pickles was biting down hard on his lower lip.  “Huh, you like dat.”

“Fuck!  Yes, I…”  Skwisgaar stopped for just long enough to slowly draw his dick out of Pickles, teasing him and chuckling to himself as Pickles tensed his legs around him, tried to drag him back with his Vans in the small of his back.  For the drummer, the withdrawal was excruciating, his hands twisted white into the grip of the groupies, unable to force a breath, and when Skwisgaar sank it back in with a fluid thrust he gasped, locking his legs behind the Swede with his toes curling tight inside his shoes and flexing the rubber soles.

“How is that _possible?_ ” he breathed, shivering as Skwisgaar’s questing hands touched his chest, damp with perspiration, “How is that… that’s not possible.  It’s not possible, _god_.”  A girl squeaked as his strong fingers squeezed her hand a little too tight, wringing against her fingers as Skwisgaar resumed his rut.

“There was somethin’ in my ludes.  Molly.  Gotta be… mollies in my… in my molly – mandies - oh, _god!”_  Pickles threw back his head as another orgasm blazed through his brain like a white flash, and - for a second there, his head a random jigsaw of thoughts and figures and shreds of light - he was actually afraid he’d gone blind, the only things he could feel the insane impossibility of Skwisgaar pounding him and the sweat dripping down his neck.

He heard Skwisgaar pant, “Dat’s it,” and groan, his slender hands kneaded into the slight pudge of Pickles’ chest, and then slowly his vision crept back from the blackout.  Girls.   _Girls._   _Ladies_ … Pickles released one of the hands he’d been torturing and reached for a beautiful dark face, the whites of her eyes and her gap teeth shining down at him, like she was laughing at him.  “You don’t understand,” he gasped, feeling his insides knot over one another again as that golden rod of Skwisgaar’s dick bucked him, “I never… you can’t… you can’t feel like this… you just, ya can’t...”

 _We know!_ said a chorus of girls out of sync, laughing at him, and Skwisgaar heaved as Pickles’ cunt locked and seized and throbbed around him, bringing him to his own precipice.  Pickles may have had all the lady-guts cut out of him - Skwisgaar had found what he thought to be the scar, a tiny white flash on his belly, while he was unconscious - but everything else still worked just fine.  He flattened his hands against Pickles’ chest, the drummer’s back arched over the edge of the arm,  and brought his knee up onto the arm for added depth, his breath jagged and his lip curling as Pickles squeezed his thighs hard around his hips, dizzy with ecstasy where he writhed, suspended, in the girls’ hands.  Skwisgaar’s pace dragged more random towards the close, which would have been his own twentieth or something ridiculous orgasm of the night, and he grabbed the curve of Pickles’ thigh in a slender hand and squeezed the soft white flesh as he drove his dick in, gave a throaty moan and came, holding himself in deep as he ejaculated.

Pickles felt it.  God damn, he _felt_ it.  Even in the handful of times Tony had managed to tip over the edge, only twice while he was in Pickles, Pickles had felt nothing.  He’d figured in those times, sure, the heroin – but probably you couldn’t feel it at all, only his dick get a bit bigger and then it was just a mess.  But when Skwisgaar swelled, held him still and started to pulse inside him with that dumb groan, he _felt it_ , the jet of warm sperm with each pulse and then the heat spreading inside him.  “Skwisgaar,” he breathed, swallowing back another very light orgasm that blushed his brain, the Swede panting heavily over him, “What the _fuck_.”

Skwisgaar caught his breath, huffing down over Pickles’ body, and then pulled out, sitting back on the sofa cushions.  Without Skwsigaar to anchor his body, Pickles teetered, and then immediately fell off the couch.

Into a pile of laughing, naked women.  So not so bad.  He lay there amongst them and twitched, covering his face and crossing his legs to the hot slime that oozed out of him, and moaned as the women stroked his face and body lovingly.  Pickles was vaguely aware of Skwisgaar getting up and crossing the room, pulling on his jeans in the background.  But couldn’t give a fuck.  He could have died right then, and he wouldn’t have given a fuck.

Skwisgaar left to look out the blackout curtains, then returned and stood over them, a tower of blue-white fire in his white clothes, and looked down his nose at them in disgust.  “De CFO, ams waitings,” he said, “Get dress, we gotta go.”

“I c--...  I c--... fff...” heaved Pickles, and held his hand up to show all five of his fingers, “Ffff....”, mouthing _five_ helplessly.  Skwisgaar put his hand out to help him up, but Pickles’ damp fingers only touched his fingertips before falling back again.

“Tch.  Why’s I always haves to do _everyt’ingks_ , for you,” growled the Swede, and he rolled his eyes dramatically before gesturing at the girls.  “Dress him.  Does it!  Ours manager ams waitingks for us.”

And so that was how Skwisgaar came to be crossing the lawn with Pickles in his arms, unconscious again, having been struggled into his underwear and shirt but his jeans abandoned to the mercy of the girls that followed them out to say goodbye.  Charles opened the limo door to the bizarre sight, gave barely a twitch of revulsion, and then let them in.

“Cripes.  What happened to him?” he said as Skwisgaar piled Pickles in next to him and then crawled in behind, snatching Pickles’ jeans out of one of the women’s hands before the door shut on them.  Skwisgaar made a half-hearted attempt to prop Pickles up in his seat, but the drummer soon flopped face-down into Charles’ lap, the manager squirming and moving his head to his knee awkwardly in compensation.

“Him’s all... cumm’d out,” explained Skwisgaar smugly, and Charles wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“I, ah.  Probably didn’t need that detail.  But okay.  Pickles?”  He touched Pickles’ face with a delicate finger experimentally but received no reaction, and then felt the patch of drool wet through his pants leg and gave a helpless sigh.  “Okay.  That’s fine.  I suppose that’s fine.  I’m glad you’re both happy.”

“ _Ja._ ”

“Let’s get you two back to the hotel then, and the both of you into a shower.  You guys reek.  Seriously.”

 

\-----

 

**Community -- > Metalsludge Forums --> Dethklok Forum --> The Panties Drawer [Locked / Private] --> Pickles The Drummer --> Pickles Has A P****?? MEGA THREAD**

**deepbluesea** _(Rank: Starfucker) wrote:_

> CONFIRMED!!!! && I got witnesses........... this is a doozy girls..... gory details below the cut....!!!!
> 
> _... < READ MORE... > ..._
> 
> _Edited yesterday 05:18 AM_

**Author's Note:**

> \--> Reply to deepbluesea? Enter comment below:
> 
> (Anonymercy fantastically illustrated Pickles' nightmare [here](http://anonymercy-art.tumblr.com/post/160522734399/mordland-i-read-your-fic-c-other-people) \- check out their page for some fantastic cartoons.)


End file.
